Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
PHOENIX
The rideshare driver has not stopped talking about lobster for seventeen consecutive minutes.
“—and then you’ve got your soft-shell season, which is a whole other ballgame,” the driver continues, gesturing expansively with one hand while the other steers us around a pothole the size of a small meteor crater.
“Tourists don’t understand, see. They come up here expecting hard-shell all year round, and then they get mad when the meat’s sweeter but there’s less of it—“
I murmur something that might be acknowledgment. In the back seat beside me, Mason sits utterly motionless.
He’s done himself up like a character in a witness protection program fever dream.
Oversized sunglasses that swallow half his face.
A baseball cap pulled so low the brim practically touches his nose.
A scarf wrapped around his neck at least three times, covering the galaxy of hickeys that I know for a fact are blooming across his throat and jaw.
Because I was there when most of them happened.
The thought sends a complicated flutter through my chest that I ruthlessly suppress.
Mason hasn’t said a word since we climbed into the car.
His posture screams leave me alone so loudly that even the lobster-obsessed driver has unconsciously angled his commentary toward Atticus in the front passenger seat.
Every few minutes, Mason shifts slightly to adjust his scarf, otherwise there is no other evidence he isn’t asleep behind those blackout lenses.
He’s trying so hard to seem fine.
I want to reach over and take his hand. And I desperately want to tell him it’s okay, that whatever he’s feeling right now is valid, that the world didn’t actually end just because he spent three days in heat with his estranged bondmate and his employer-slash-whatever-I-am-now.
But I also know Mason well enough to recognize when he needs space. Pushing now will only make him retreat further into that shell of professionalism he’s been wearing like armor for years.
So I keep my hands folded in my lap and stare out the window at the passing scenery—clapboard houses, weathered fences, the occasional glimpse of gray ocean between the trees—and let him pretend he’s invisible.
“—which is why the festival timing is so crucial,” the driver continues, seemingly oblivious to the complete lack of engagement from his passengers.
“You want to hit that sweet spot right after the summer season but before the water gets too cold. Late September, early October. Peak flavor profile.”
“Fascinating,” Atticus says from the front seat, and his voice is warm enough that I can’t tell if he’s being genuine or just very politely sarcastic.
I catch his eye in the rearview mirror. A quick flash of green, crinkling slightly at the corners. He tilts his head almost imperceptibly toward Mason, then raises an eyebrow in silent question.
He okay?
I give the smallest possible shrug. No idea.
His gaze holds mine for another beat before returning to the road ahead. Even that brief interaction settles me a bit. Though I can’t quite believe that rockstar playboy Atticus Sloan has become the steady, comforting presence in my life while Mason falls apart.
Maybe we did all die in that plane crash and this is some dreamy afterlife.
The driver finally pauses for breath as we turn onto the main street leading to Harmony Harbor General. “Anyway, you folks in town for the festival?”
“Just passing through,” I say, my first words since we got in the car.
“Shame. The chowder competition alone is worth the trip. My cousin Margie’s been reigning champion three years running. Secret’s in the bacon fat.”
We pull up to the hospital entrance before he can elaborate further on Margie’s culinary secrets. Atticus handles the payment and tip before Mason or I get the chance.
The same receptionist from our previous visit looks up as we approach. Her eyes go wide when they land on Atticus, gleeful recognition flickering across her face before she smooths it into professional composure.
“Mr. Sloan! So nice to see you again.” She’s already typing something into her computer, nails clicking against the keys. “You’re here to see Ms. Gerber?”
“That’s right.” Atticus leans against the counter, deploying that easy charm that makes everyone in his vicinity feel like they’re the only person in the room. “How’s she doing?”
“Much better, actually.” The receptionist’s smile brightens. “She was transferred out of the ICU yesterday. Room 412 now. You’ll find her in much better spirits.”
Relief loosens something tight in my chest. “That’s great news.”
“Oh yes, she’s been giving the nursing staff quite a workout.” There’s a note of fond exasperation in the woman’s voice. “Very…determined, that one.”
That’s one word for Stephanie.
We make our way to the fourth floor—after a quick stop at the hospital gift shop—and follow the numbered plaques down a corridor that smells slightly less like industrial-strength cleanser than the ICU did.
The door of Stephanie’s room is propped open, and I can hear her voice before we even reach the threshold.
“—the European syndication rights need to be locked down before the premiere window closes, I don’t care if legal is dragging their feet, that’s not my problem—“
We pause in the doorway.
Stephanie is propped up in bed, but she looks nothing like the fragile figure I saw in the ICU.
She’s wearing a silk robe over her hospital gown, her laptop balanced on a rolling tray table, a Bluetooth headset hooked over one ear.
The bandage on her head has been replaced with a smaller, more discreet patch, and her blonde hair has been somehow styled into presentable waves despite the circumstances.
When she spots us in the doorway, she holds up a single finger without breaking stride in her conversation.
“—and tell Tokyo that the interview window is non-negotiable. If they want exclusive content, they work around our schedule, not the other way around.” A pause. “Yes. Yes. Fine. Send me the revised contracts by end of business. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She taps her earpiece and finally gives us her full attention.
“Well, well. The wandering party returns.” Her gaze sweeps over us, one eyebrow raised. “You all look like hell.”
That’s pretty rich coming from the woman in a hospital bed, but I keep that thought to myself.
Sliding into a chair at her bedside, I set down the bouquet of flowers just purchased from gift shop on her side table. “Well, you look great.”
“As always.” Her eyes narrow as she surveys me. “I see you’re recovered from that “unexpected” heat.”
Her air quotes are clearly audible even without her fingers moving.
“We’ve had a eventful few days,” Atticus says mildly.
I keep my response pleasant, reminding myself she recently suffered a head injury. “Mostly passed. Thanks for asking.”
“Mm-hmm.” She’s still watching me with that sharp, knowing look. “And Mason’s sympathetic heat? Also resolved?”
Sympathetic heat. Of course Stephanie knows that there is something more going on than what was included in the hasty emails Mason sent to the studio that she was CC’ed on.
She’s professional enough not to ask questions, but that doesn’t mean she wants to leave us thinking she’s an idiot with the wool over her eyes.
“We’re all feeling much better,” I say carefully. “How are you? We’ve been worried.”
Stephanie waves a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. I’d already be discharged if the doctor would just get their heads out of their asses.”
Atticus snorts, but his expression switches to a sympathetic frown when Stephanie glares at him.
She reaches for her laptop, typing something. “The good news is that the studio was surprisingly understanding about the heat situation. Being outwardly sympathetic to omega medical emergencies is just a good PR move these days.”
“That’s… good?” I venture.
“It’s excellent. It means the European leg of the press tour has been postponed rather than cancelled outright.
” She turns the laptop toward us, showing a revised calendar that makes my head spin.
“New dates start early next week. Which means you need to be on a plane out of here in the next four days.”
Four days.
The thought of getting back on a plane makes my lungs constrict.
“Phoenix?” Atticus’s voice, gentle and concerned.
I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
“It’s fine,” I manage, though the words come out thin and reedy. “We have to leave eventually, right?”
I don’t have the right to freak out right now, I remind myself. For Christ’s sake, I’m standing in front of someone who actually almost died on a plane and I’m the one about to have a panic attack? Pathetic.
Stephanie’s expression softens ever so slightly. Her mouth opens, but before she can say anything there is a soft knock on the door.
“Ms. Gerber?” A woman in her thirties stands in the doorway, wearing a hospital badge and a kind, professionally warm expression. “I’m Melanie, one of the social workers on staff. I just wanted to check in and make sure you don’t need any additional support.”
“I’m great,” Stephanie drawls. “Unless you can support me in getting out of here today.”
Melanie’s lip quirks in a smile. “I’d heard from the nurses that you’re eager for discharge. That’s not my call, but I’ll see what I can do to help things along.”
Stephanie returns to her laptop with a sniff, fingers moving a mile a minute. “I would very much appreciate that. The food here is terrible.”
With a chuckle, the social worker turns to leave.
Mason stops her.
“Wait.” His voice is rough from disuse, the first words he’s spoken since we left the house.”Phoenix, maybe you should talk to her.”
I blink at him. “Why?”
Mason pulls off his sunglasses and levels me with bloodshot eyes. “You’ve been dealing with this flight anxiety for years. Talking about it with someone might help.”
Melanie brightens. “I’d be happy to chat with you.”
“I don’t need that.”